"Mayn't I finish these first?" said Faith, through whose fingers and the towel the cups and saucers slipped with a dexterity that was, to say the least of it, pretty. "Why mother, you were not so keen after arithmetic the other day."
"Keen after it!" said Mrs. Derrick,—"la, child, I don't pretend to be keen. But I never could bear to see a thing half done,—I'd rather do it twice over."
There was something else running in Faith's mind; for after abstractedly setting down one after another several saucers, polished from the hot water and huckaback, she dropped her towel and flung both arms round her mother's neck.
"Mother!—there is one thing I want you to do—I want you to be a
Christian!"
There was persuasion in the soft head that nestled against her, if
Faith's words lacked it.
To the words her mother gave no answer, but she returned the caress with interest; wrapping Faith in her arms, and drawing her down to the next chair, as if—literally—she could not stand that.
"Pretty child!" she said—and more than one tear fell upon Faith's bright hair,—"you're the best child that ever was!—and always were!"
"No, mother," said Faith kissing her.—"But will you?"
"I don't know!" said Mrs. Derrick,—"that's what your father used to say, Faith,—and I used to think I'd like to, to please him,—but somehow I never did."
"Never wished it for your own sake, dear mother?"